I thought my nose was running; it was bleeding.
I wiped it absently and made a rusty smear on finger, nose, and upper lip.
Breathing through my mouth a little like a pig or a little kid.
Someone impatient or unschooled, which I am kinda.
Someone who wants to make sense and be made sense of.
Someone who sees an Alma Thomas circle or Mark Rothko block of color and who feels it ministering to my heart through my eyes.
Why is that? Who made that. Why does my blood pressure lower when I see the fruit of your brush and the little imperfection in your stroke.
Pane of red, pane of blue pane of black broken by crimson, each one makes you feel something different.
I sit on a green bench on the golf course and look toward the sun and thank you.
For pain for it reminds me that I am alive and that I have a body for which to be thankful.
My bendy fingers which I bend in succession to remember.
I’m a stop-motion man come alive in self-regard.
My sense of hearing which hears a truck gunning its engine, a little fortress to roll loud and high down the road.
My eyes which squint so they don’t see the sun.
I’m out of order. I’m neurons neutrons synapses, thought memory desire regret firing automatically.
Breathe the breath of you in me.
Order feels rote. I want chaos. Pollock. Punk. Jazz. Numbess, absence, disarray.
But there’s always order, seeping through, looking to settle everything.
In the beginning was the word. Logos. Order I guess.
In AA you admit that your life has become unmanageable. Yes it has and so it remains.
I don’t manage, I am managed.
So yeah I’m sitting on a green bench. I’ve got the same rote pain the same rote trees. the same rote steps to take, things to do people to see.
I know that if I get up and move my body, get the blood moving, something will catch fire in me, maybe send something coursing through,
Causing my brush to move. I’m part, I’m parcel.
Ok I’m getting up.
Like Gumby or Davey or Gromit. Jerky movements of clay the Animator used,